Stuttgart, Germany
by an asian to the knee
Summary: A short Avengers oneshot about the old man that stood up and refused to acknowledge Loki's authority in Germany. Has appearances of Captain America/Steve Rogers and Loki. Rated T for allusions to the Holocaust (non-explicit, pretty vague)


The old man hobbled through the streets of Stuttgart, the late fall winds cutting through his thin jacket like knives. He shivered, pulling the material tighter around him, making his way to his home.

A few cars smoothly slid by on the damp road, and the old man stepped aside to let them pass. He caught a look at who was inside: a man and woman both smartly dressed, obviously invited to the grand party inside that grand building. The old man considered the notable piece of architecture, its bold, Corinthian-style columns shooting skyward. It was so declaratively Roman, so proudly supporting something that might've belonged in an empire, that it was hard to believe that only a few decades ago, this land was in ruin. But the old man knew quite a bit about the history of Germany—perhaps much too intimately. He swallowed and narrowed his eyes to try and stifle the memories before they surfaced, again. The perpetual guilt weighing on his shoulders and heart each and every day was bad enough. He didn't want to relive all of the moments, as well.

But now that he was thinking of them, there was no way to hold back the flood of images, of fragments and flashes that came together in one broken, shattered whole. The smell of fire, the cold, sickening sensation of mud, standing in the harsh, chilling rain, looking someone in the eye before putting a bullet through their head, nonchalantly guiding crowds of ignorant people to their deaths…they all came back, playing like some old movie on his eyelids. It went frame by painful frame. No detail was spared from him.

The old man felt his shoulders sag, and he paused in his walk home. He blinked tiredly at the brick sidewalk, disgusted with himself. Why, he wondered, was it he that survived while all those others didn't? How was it possible? Was it God? Was He punishing him by letting him live a life where he felt like he was perpetually dragging his feet through putrid, poisonous muck weighing him down?

Suddenly, screams split the night air. The old man whirled to find people streaming out of the grand white building before him. He felt his eyes widen as the crowd engulfed him and the other pedestrians innocently on their way by. There was a mad, harried rush and jostling of bodies. It was all the old man could do to stay upright. Back and forth he was thrown and, coupled with the screams, he was taken back for a moment to the more frightful days in his history where the very ground shook as men rushed across the battlefield and the very air seemed to hold its breath. He panicked, unsure of where he was—or when—until a commanding voice brought order to the chaos.

"_Kneel_!"

And on impulse, the old man did, staring at the shimmering images of some man dressed almost comically—no, hilariously—and the old man would've laughed if it were not such a dire situation. The twin golden tusks mounted on this man's helmet seemed much more menacing than ridiculous right now, and the scepter in his hand did not look like some toy but a weapon of destruction.

The old man listened to this man speak somewhere to his right, imagining what he must look like. Triumphant, no doubt, and reveling in his power. The Roman building rising up behind him, the lights of the party still aglow. All eyes would be on him, entranced with terrible, trembling uncertainty, the crowd's beliefs wavering. There was truth laced in his poisonous words, and that was what made them swallow it so willingly.

But he had heard this before.

"In the end, you will always kneel."

Oh, he had heard this so many times before.

The aches of his bones washed through him. The blurring in his vision flickered. Indeed, he had heard this before. A man drunk on power and of need. A man so enraptured by the seat of authority that he lost something on the way…

The old man had heard this many times before, and each of those times, he had knelt willingly. Obediently. Because he was in awe of the man that lost everything. And because the old man had been afraid. He had been afraid of what he might lose as well.

He wasn't afraid anymore.

He felt himself rise. His joints creaked. His bones cracked. His fingers and legs trembled and rattled. But he was not afraid.

"Not to men like you," he heard himself say.

"There are no men like me," the man grinned devilishly. The old man watched him with a sad, remorseful gaze full of sympathy and regret. In this young man, the elder saw all of the things that were unforgiveable and gave him little to expect but divine punishment on his fast approaching day of passing. If he could take it all back—wipe his slate clean—if God were to give him one last chance of redemption and make up for what an arrogant, childish fool he was back then…

It would be more than a blessing. More than he could—and should—ever ask for. And he knew it well.

"There are always men like you," said the old man quietly and evenly. His voice was infused with knowledge and knowing that went beyond just his age. What, the people around him wondered, had he experienced to say such a thing with such utter conviction and faith?

The old man felt his heart pound as the younger raised his weapon to strike a death blow. He reflexively stepped back, his eyes widening, but somewhere in between, a humble acceptance overcame him. He was ready.

And then there was a streak of blue and white. The old man started as he stared at the back of his savior. That outfit. That man. The shield was different, but…

There was an unshakeable assurance that this was indeed the famed "super soldier" he had heard about. He had seen pictures, seen small flashes of him through slender branches and over the crests of snowy hills. And here he stood before the old man, as youthful and alive as ever! Saving him! The very enemy the soldier had once sworn to defeat! Did this man know of the older one's crimes? Did he know who he had just allowed to live? The irony had not eluded him. The divine poetry was not missed! How determined was God to keep him alive to suffer life?

_But perhaps_, a small voice inside the old man whispered, _this is not a symbol of punishment of all_.

But dare an old man hope?


End file.
